Gotham Girls Book Club
by Lady Verity
Summary: Every so often, the villainesses of Gotham get together to talk about their lives and love lives and maybe read a good book. Post TDK. First Batman-verse fic. I promise you'll laugh, so read and review, please! Joker'nHarley, Ivy'n?, Kitty'n?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, all! Just something silly I had a random idea for. My first venture into the Batman universe. I had intended for this to be a oneshot, but if anyone wants me to continue, maybe add a real plot, just holler!**

**Also: Veggie quiche, assorted smoked fish, and some very colorful pastries are being handed around to all reviewers (you'll see why once you read the story)!**

_Ding-dong!_

Ivy was just straightening up the sun room when she heard the doorbell ring. She gave her Venus flytraps a quick fluffing up before she went to answer.

Meetings were usually at Ivy's house, sitting in the glassed-in sun room at the back of her sprawling farmhouse outside of Gotham. It was nice to talk with the moon shining through the glass ceiling, and surrounded by all those exotic plants. Besides, no one else's house was really practical. Kitty still lived in her big, messy apartment downtown, where there were always clothes on the floor and cat hair everywhere, and as for Harley's . . . well, too much time in those bright purple rooms could do funny things to most people's heads. Besides, "Mr. J" was likely to wander in at any moment, juggling knives or something, totally throwing off the balance. This was supposed to be a girl's night. So that left Ivy's. Not that she minded. It was nice to have the feeling of control being in your own home gave you, and besides, the plants got restless if they were alone too long with nothing to do.

Ivy opened the door. The young woman standing there was wearing a loose-fitting red and black dress with a swirling pattern, and vividly scarlet lipstick, her blonde hair fell just to her shoulders, and she was carrying a tray of alarmingly bright, carefully handmade pastries- green and purple meringues, cupcakes with harlequin-patterned frosting, and a few unidentifiable goodies. She smiled. "Hey, Ivy."

"Harley, I am loving that dress." One of the nice things about these meetings was the opportunity to go out without the full uniform. Ivy herself was in jeans and her favorite pale green blouse, her red curls up with chopsticks. "Is it new?"

"Yep," Harley giggled. "A present from Puddin'. Said he saw it in the boutique next to the bank he was robbin' and just thought of me. First thing he bought with the money." She always giggled when she talked about him, wether she was talking about their latest heist together or his scars or a new joke he had told her. And why shouldn't she, she wondered? She was (no offense to her dear friends) the happiest villainess in Gotham, and there was nothing wrong with showing it.

"Come on," Ivy said to her bubbly friend, taking the tray of desserts from her, "let's get these into the kitchen. Kitty called to say she was running late, as usual." The two women exchanged a sympathetic roll of their eyes at their third comrade's lack of punctuality.

"Yeesh, Ivy," said Harley once they were in the scrubbed wooden kitchen as she dodged a hanging fern. "I understand the ones in the sun room, and the greenhouse, and even the hall, but do you need plants _everywhere_?"

Ivy sighed as she took her vegetable quiche from the oven and placed it next to a platter of crudites. One of the rules of the group was that everyone had to bring food- nothing stolen and preferably something homemade. "Actually, I do. And you ask me that every meeting," she added with a smile.

"Yeah," Harley grinned, "and mark my words, Kitty'll ask me if I gotta dress so bright all the time. Just wait."

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. "Watch the food," Ivy said as she went to answer it. Harley ignored her instructions and followed her.

The third woman standing at the door was wearing a black skirt, black blouse, and a long black coat, her light brown hair in a loose ponytail. Since her friends had never seemed to like her homemade roast canary (suit themselves, the freaks), she had picked up a platter of smoked fish instead. She had on a dreamy smile that immediately caused her friends alarm.

"Oh, no," Harley shook her head in exasperation, waiting for the inevitable news.

"Kitty, honey," said a concerned Ivy, putting a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Honey, you didn't. Tell me you didn't. You'll hate yourself afterwards, and you know it."

"Did what?" Kitty asked, genuinely confused, as she handed off the platter of fish.

"Got back together with Batman!" both of her friends shrieked.

"What? Of course not," Kitty laughed. How foolish did they think she was? After thirteen times, she had learned from her mistakes; that was one relationship that would simply never work.

"Then why the smile?" Harley asked. Enormous, silly grins were usually her department.

"Oh, that," Kitty blushed. "Well, it's just . . . I kind of met someone new."

That was the cue. Both of her friends started screaming and jumping up and down. "What's he like?" Ivy asked. "Tell me, tell me, tell me!"

"Oh," Kitty gushed, "He's such a gentleman, and he looks so handsome in this dark green suit he wears a lot." She ignored Harley's muttering of "I prefer purple," and went on. "And you know how it really bothers most guys when I play games with them? Well, he seems to really like it. And the other night, it was the sweetest thing, he left me clues to a candlelight dinner! Not even clues so much as riddles . . ." she trailed off, smiling at the memory.

"He sounds great," Ivy said. "But let's hear from the resident relationship expert. Harley, what do you think?"

Contrary to popular belief, Harley Quinn was no fool, and laughed when addressed, thinking that if she was any group's "resident relationship expert," that group had to be a pretty strange one. "Well," she said, smiling, "sounds like he no Mr. J, but then, who is? How'd you two meet?"

"Oh, it was the funniest thing, he was stealing a gold sarcophogus from the same Egyptian exhibit at the museum where _I_ was stealing some jeweled cat statues. We sort of bumped into each other there, and he asked me to get some drinks after the getaway."

"Oh," Harley squealed, "that's so cute! You know when me and Puddin' met," Ivy and Kitty grinned at each other; they had heard this story a hundred times, but it didn't hurt to make it a hundred and one, "I was his shrink at Arkham. And every day we'd talk a little, about this and that, and he was so nice to me in his crazy way, nicer than anyone else, even for a criminal, and I just kept thinking about him. And one day, he'd just told me about that time he robbed that mafia bank, he just stopped and said, 'I know I'm a madman, but I love you Harley, I do.' And I realized I loved him and helped him knock out his wardens with some depressants I had prescribed to someone and break out of Arkham, and now here we are."

All three women smiled. It was a sweet story. Twisted, but sweet. "Hey, Ivy," Kitty asked, "that painting new?" she cocked her head at a priceless Monet landscape.

"Oh, that, yeah," Ivy smiled. "Fresh from the Gotham Art Museum. A little present from Oswald. He'd wanted to give me a scene with birds, but I told him I liked landscapes."

"Oswald?" Harley asked. "Didn't know you were with him these days. Bit formal for your tastes, I'd have thought. And what about Victor?"

"Oh, you know Victor, so cold-hearted. And besides, he just recently landed in Arkham. Although not before giving me a nice chunk of ice." Ivy fingered the massive diamond pendant at her neck and laughed her best evil laugh. Men. Infinitely amusing and easy to rid yourself of, especially in her line of work. In Ivy's twisted code of morals, one cardinal rule was that there was nothing wrong with cooperating with the police if they were looking for an ex-boyfriend, but informing on your friends was absolutely and utterly wrong. "Tell me something," she asked them now, "am I a homicidal tart?"

If the three of them had been good friends, Harley and Kitty would have said "oh no, of course not," or some such. But they were great friends, so they just said, "Yep. Now come, on let's start the discussion."

Harley pulled out a copy of this week's book; it had been her choice. "Something we all know all about," she said, settling into her chair, "_Sense and Sensibility._"

All three women cracked up in laughter. Even in the twisted underbelly of Gotham, it was good to have friends.


	2. Chapter 2

**So in case you didn't notice, I've decided to continue. Hope you're pleased! Anyways, I've been pretty busy, but I'll try to get up regular chapters. So pull up a chair, grab a plate of roast canary and harlequin cupcakes, and let's get on with the story!**

**Oh, and reviewers will receive an invitation to the birthday party Harley's throwing Mr. J, which you'll hear about this chapter- come on, how could you _not_ want to go?**

This was a rare meeting at Kitty's house, because Ivy had picked the book. _The Good Earth,_ by Pearl Buck. Kitty sighed, listening to the rain outside. Plant girl picked a book about the Earth, what a surprise. Okay, it wasn't really about plants or anything, but it was still enough to make her roll her eyes.

Kitty had made a fair attempt to clean up the apartment, meaning that while there were still piles of clothes haphazardly scattered around, there were places where you could see the floor. She had made roast canary (damn it if the girls didn't like it- it was her favorite) and there was a bouquet of black tulips on a coffee table- a delivery from her new beau. He'd even written one of his clever little riddles on the card.

Maybe it was because she was thinking about the flowers, but just then the doorbell rang. In walked a rather damp Ivy, wearing a kelly green raincoat and bearing a platter of veggie spring rolls from a nearby Chinese restaurant. "Hey, Kitty, sorry I'm late, traffic was a nightmare. By the way, love what you've done with the place, I never knew you had carpet."

Kitty just rolled her eyes and smiled at the carpet comment (to be honest, _she'd_ forgotten she had it) "Traffic? Really?" she asked. This time of day there was usually no one around.

"Yeah, some fiasco with the sewers. I think there was a giant alligator in there or something equally horrible," Ivy shuddered delicately. She could deal with nature's most gruesome flora without batting an eye, but _reptiles_ were another matter entirely. "I got lucky, the police were just threatening to call in the Bat," both women made a gagging sound and giggled; it was such a relief, thought Ivy, that Kitty had gotten over her silly infatuation and was seeing a proper villain; from the sound of it, this one might be a keeper.

"But how'd you get so wet?" Kitty asked. _She_ was the messy one.

"Ah, I lost my umbrella," Ivy shrugged. "Oswald tried to get me a new one, but the _thing_ he chose for me was just . . . loathsome," she cringed expressively. Apparently her new, avian-loving man had his definite faults. "It had these spirals like that hypnosis machine we all tried to make . . . anyway, plants need water." she finished stoically.

"Of course they do," Kitty nodded sagely, grinning at the memory of the trio's hypnosis experiments; one of her cats, Cleo, never was quite the same afterwards. "So Harley called," she continued, "She said she'd be running a little late, and to just sit tight because she was bringing a surprise."

Both women exchanged nervous glances. Not that they didn't love her dearly, but they wondered exactly what Harley's idea of a "surprise" might entail.

Thankfully, they didn't need to wonder long, as just then the doorbell rang, and was opened to reveal a significantly laden-down Harley, bearing not only her usual array of sweetly garish desserts, but also two wrapped boxes- green tied with purple ribbon.

"Hey guys!" she grinned. "Sorry it took me so long-" she set her packages down on a counter, greatly startling the Russian Blue that had been sleeping there- "but here." She handed a box to each of her friends, and, smiling, waited for their reactions.

Ivy and Kitty opened the boxes and grinned at the familiar sight inside. In each package was a time bomb, merrily ticking away. They both calmly cut four cords on each bomb- the red, black, green, and purple. Why did the Gotham City Police never learn- it was _always_ the red, black, green, and purple? Once the bombs were sitting there harmlessly, Harley had to restrain herself from shouting "look at the lid!" but managed to wait patiently until her friend found the message there.

_It's Mistah J's Birthday!_

_You're invited to celebrate the event_

_Next Saturday (September 27), at Restaurant 927_

_At- guess when?- 9:27 pm!_

_Bring a date, and the dress code is Dress Formals_

_-Harley Q._

Harley smiled to herself. Of course she could have just _told_ them about the party- every year she and her dear Mr. J did something splashy for each other's birthday, so this was hardly a surprise- but if she said so herself, these invitations had style.

"Restaurant 927?" Ivy interjected, recognizing with distaste the name of Gotham's latest hotspot. "Favorite watering hole of the polluting bastards who own the factories outside Gotham?"

"And all their fur-wearing horrors of wives and dates?" Kitty added, perplexed. Usually their circle held it's parties at each other's homes, wild, underground clubs, or high-security banks.

Harley's grin grew even wider; here lay the genius of her plan. "Exactly. And not a one of them has a sense of humor. Now about what to wear, just remember to accessorize. Weapons, assorted gizmos, grappling hooks . . ."

The three women smiled, seeing the possibilities unfold for the evening. "It'll be the social event of the season," Ivy said.

"It might even make headlines," Harley and Kitty said together, then started yelling "jinx! jinx!"

They were going to get around to discussing the book- eventually- but for the moment, the planning that lay ahead was simply too intriguing to ignore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry! I know it's been a while, but welcome to chapter 3! And remember, even if you didn't review last time, you can still come to the after party/getaway by dropping a note this time. Actually, please do, because this is my favorite chapter so far, and I'd really like to know what you think. Thanks, and now, on with the story!**

"New formals?" Ivy asked Kitty, on the rooftop of the boutique next door to Restaurant 927, the designated meeting place before the party. She herself was wearing her traditional dress uniform: skintight dark green satin, thin, curved green mask, red hair loose and flowing, and a single live vine around her waist. She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "I approve."

Kitty grinned and blushed a little. She had been going for something a little more elegant than that ratty old thing she'd been wearing everywhere since she had first entered the business. The new outfit was also a black patent leather body suit, but more streamlined this time, and short sleeved, accentuated with elbow-length white gloves and lace-up stiletto boots (each carefully concealing an actual stiletto, as it would happen). "Thanks," she said. "Where are Harley and the guest of honor?" Both women exchanged half-kidding looks of exasperation. The love of Harley's life was of course a dear friend, but his . . . colorful nature could be a bit much for most people.

In an example of the exquisite timing many people in their line of work shared, Harley's excited squeak was heard just then. "Hey guys! Didja miss us?"

Harley Quinn's dress uniform was arguably the most original of the bunch, with her short black boots, red-and-black glittery harem pants, scarlet cumberbund, and cream satin ruffled shirt. All of this was topped off with her traditional jester's hat and makeup, and an enormous smile. "You guys look great!" she grinned. The night had just begun, she thought, but still, what a night it was going to be! She and her friends and her one true love, enjoying a night on the town . . . who could possibly disapprove? she thought with a giggle.

"Oh yes, ladies, you _are_ both looking especially lovely tonight," said the Clown Prince of Crime himself. "Although never as lovely as _you_," he conceded to Harley, catching her brief jealous glance and wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. Some people, after seeing them work together, often said that Harley and Mr. J were no more than a criminal comedy duo, co-themed partners in crime. They were wrong by a mile. Anyone could see how Harley lit up whenever "puddin'" was around, and as for Mr. J himself . . . well, call it what you would, but the only time his psychotic, glistening eyes ever looked soft was when he looked at Harley. "And I'm, uh, touched," the Joker continued, "that you all could be here to celebrate little old me. Speaking of which, I think we have another guest."

The four of them barely had time to register the slender man who had joined them on the roof before Harley turned to her friend and whispered, "Kitty, is that who I think it is?"

Kitty, face glowing under her mask and cat ears, nodded. The man crossed over to her, took her gloved hand, and pressed it to his lips. "Selina," he said with a slight inclination of his head and a wicked grin. As if it wasn't odd enough hearing Kitty's real name, she smiled even broader (if that was possible) and replied, "Edward."

Edward Nygma was undeniably a very cool customer. Wealthy of his own accord (he owned a family castle near Prague) he had entered the business in a desperate search for entertainment, and found it. It was dark on the roof, but had the group met in a better lit location, they would have seen a tall, slender man with strong, sharply angular features, perpetually amused brown eyes, and dark brown hair neatly slicked back. They would also have been able to see that his finely tailored dark green suit had embroidered on it, in a slightly darker shade of green, question marks. After he and Kitty were not-so-gently booted out of their own little world, courtesy of Ivy, and he had introduced himself to everyone, and there had been some comments on the antique silver-and-jade revolver he was carrying, Ivy sighed and said "Well, I guess we're only waiting on one more person."

She needn't have worried. Just then they heard a series of loud wheezes coming from the fire escape, followed by a distinct thud. The group turned to see a portly man had managed to heave himself onto the roof. This was not surprising. What _was_ surprising, though, was the fact that he was wearing what appeared to be a moldering old Halloween costume, very large and furry, of a penguin.

Ivy strolled over to her bedraggled date. "What are you wearing, Oswald?" she asked coolly.

"My costume, dollface," he squawked in his nasal voice, as if he saw nothing odd in the situation.

"Go home, Oswald," said Ivy, her voice like ice.

"But you said this was a fancy-dress party!" he protested.

"Formal wear, Oswald. I said formal wear."

"But, but . . ."

If such a thing would not have disgusted her, Ivy could have used her voice just then to freeze a greenhouse. "Go home, Oswald."

That evening, thanks to an anonymous tip, Gotham police were able to apprehend the infamous Penguin.

As soon as her former suitor had waddled off, Harley and Kitty went to comfort their friend. "Oh, hon, you deserve much better" Harley said, while Kitty murmured "I'm so sorry."

"I'm fine," Ivy smiled at her friends and meant it. The sea was full of fish, and besides, it was party time!

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," said the Joker as all five of them entered the restaurant and he fired a single traditional shot at the ceiling.

"Welcome to the party!" giggled Harley.

"Now," said Edward, "If you fine people would be so kind . . ."

"All cash, jewelry, _furs_, and other valuables. And thank you for cooperating," Kitty giggled, cracking her whip once.

"We'll know if you try to keep anything," Ivy added, taking a flower from a bouquet on a nearby table and pushing it behind her ear.

The resulting sense of panic, yet with everyone staying still, gave the group a moment of pure job satisfaction, and then the collection rounds began.

"The duck is a little salty," the Joker commented to the distinguished-looking man whose meal he had just sampled. "How's yours, Harley?"

"The chocolate mousse is yummy, puddin'. You should try it."

"That _does_ sound good," said Mr. J, absently throwing a switchblade over his shoulder as he walked to her. It landed perfectly in the plaster of the wall, seven feet up.

Meanwhile, as Kitty was inspecting a wallet, a very intoxicated man at the next table man a very unwise decision. "Here, kitty kitty," he said, groping at her rear. "Let me pet you, pussycat."

Kitty had just wheeled on her harasser when she noticed a dark red hole appear between his eyes, and heard a gunshot. She turned to see Edward Nygma, revolver smoking, standing ten feet away. "If anyone else tries that," he addressed the room amiably, "you've been warned."

Kitty stared at her feet and grinned. Her knight in shining armor.

Finally, they had gathered and bagged all the valuables and, in the case of the Joker and Harley, sampled every dish. There was a reason all three women had forgone jewelry that night; Harley now sported a new ruby bracelet, Ivy, emerald earrings, and Kitty a diamond choker. They had planned a big exit when suddenly a petite tanned blonde alone at a table for two said, "I guess it was a good thing Bruce got stuck in traffic."

All five of them choked back laughter. In their circle, it was common knowledge who Bruce Wayne's alter ego was. Really, who else had the money, physical strength, and resources necessary to the Caped Crusader? The only reason Wayne was still alive was that . . . well, in the world of theatrical crime, having an adversary made things more interesting, made a better show. Kitty smiled as she thought that; she had always wanted to be an actress. She caught Ivy's eye, who was also thinking 'if they only knew' about the man she sometimes thought of as "the little diversion" and both women struggled not to crack up.

Finally Harley choked out, "Gotta run," and all five of them hurried outside to make their escape.

As they sped off, quickly dodging a few incompetent cops, it was hard not to grin. The night was young, and the world was bright, new, and theirs for the taking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Yes, I know it's been a while. Sorry! I've had the worst writer's block on where to go with this story. But here I am, and please enjoy! And remember, your lovely reviews are my number-one motivation, so you know the drill. And now, to the story!**

Harley Quinn loved to drive. Really loved it. Getaway cars were nice of course, but a great thing about meetings were that they gave her a chance to drive _her_ car, a zippy little red convertible that Ivy called "a polluting menace", all the way down the winding old roads to Ivy's house, blonde hair streaming behind her. There was still an hour until the meeting started, the first one since Puddin's birthday four weeks ago (Gotham News was still calling it the most bizarre crime of the year, much to Harley's delight), which gave her plenty of time to see exactly how rigid the cops were on this "speed limit" business. She threw her head back and, wishing Mr. J could be there alongside her for their trademark, laughed at the world, feeling glad to be alive.

Kitty was running late as ever. There had been a major cat burglary the night before, and with the oddest riddle at the crime scene . . . police were still puzzled, and she had overslept. What a night . . . she drove her tiny little black car out of Gotham and stared at her hands, unadorned except for a small jeweled bracelet recently extracted from a bank vault, smiling. She had barely had time to pick up a tray of tuna burgers for the meeting, and had even forgotten her copy of the book, her choice (_The Red Tent_- Harley had been disappointed when she realized it wasn't about a circus, but even she had enjoyed it afterwards). Still, she couldn't be bothered. All she could do was smile at herself ad keep glancing at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. Tonight she would tell her friends, but for the moment . . . she grinned. She had a secret.

Ivy was restless. Even the plants were starting to recognize it; her favorite Venus flytrap had taken no pleasure in the flank steak she fed him for dinner. She hated the way it sounded, but she was pretty sure she needed a man. The fiasco with Oswald was the first time she'd ever broken up with someone, as opposed to simply replacing them. Of course blowing up that petroleum refinery last week had taken out some frustration, but still . . . she missed having someone to play mind games on, who'd steal things for her, someone to amuse her. Ah, well. At least the girls were coming over tonight. Her friends could always cheer her up.

As usual, Harley arrived first. "Hey, Ivy," she greeted her old friend with a grin. "What's new?" Ivy simply shrugged, and Harley could sense something was wrong. "I parked the polluting menace outside. Batted my eyelashes out of a speeding ticket on the way here. Good thing Puddin' never deals with any women cops, I'm sure he could charm them out of even trying a chase, and where's the fun in that?" her eyes caught a momentary jealous gleam, thinking of her Mr. J charming anyone but her. "_Really_ good thing," she finished.

Ivy couldn't help but laugh at that. The irrepressible Harley Quinn. "Come on," she said, smiling. "Help me water the belladonna bushes. And don't groan; you know I need them."

"I didn't say anything!" Harley protested, her face a mask of pure innocence. Although it was true that she was more of a squirting-flower kind of girl, when you got down to it.

They were just finishing up in the greenhouse and rehashing Mr. J's magnificent birthday when at long last Kitty arrived. She was looking particularly cheerful standing at the door in her favorite black turtleneck, but neither Ivy or Harley was alarmed; they had read about last night's burglary in the papers. "Hey guys," she practically chirped, setting down the tuna burgers. "Let's get started!"

"Girls," Ivy confessed, sprawled in a wicker armchair in the sun room, "I think I need a man. It shames me to admit it, but there we are. I'm restless, bored, and the city hasn't been kind enough to build a new, heavily polluting factory I could destroy in ages, so I need a new project!"

"Well," Harley cracked an evil grin; the joke was so clear she couldn't resist, "there's always Gotham's most eligible bachelor: Bruce Wayne!"

She and Kitty cracked up. "Speaking of our love lives . . ." Kitty began, very quietly, until she and Harley noticed the very disturbing expression on Ivy's face.

She was not laughing, but rather, her face had gone perfectly clear and thoughtful. As she tucked an errant strand of red hair behind her ear, the beginnings of a small smile started around her lips.

"Kitty," Harley began cautiously, "our dear friend Ivy couldn't possibly be thinking what I think she might be thinking? Could she?"

"No," Kitty answered in a similarly guarded tone, "there's no way she's thinking what you think she might be thinking. Could she, Ivy?"

Ivy was now wearing a full-out grin. "Not the Bat," she shuddered, as was traditional, when she said his name. "_Bruce Wayne_. Think about it. It would certainly be a project."

And all three of them did think about it. There was something about the thought of Ivy, not in uniform but just as Ivy, hobnobbing with none other than Bruce Wayne by day, yet still fighting Batman by night, that was immensely appealing to Harley's sense of humor, as well as Kitty's sense of irony. And think of the sort of opportunities all three of them could have, perhaps even an occasional double date (although that might be tricky with Mr. J) . . . Soon all three women were grinning. "It would certainly be a project," Harley repeated giggling, while Kitty mused about the aliases they might need to use.

The term "book club" was beginning to apply rather loosely to the trio, more some best friends who got together and perhaps got around to discussing a book, but they didn't care. As they started planning their latest escapade all three of them were in good moods: Ivy was intrigued; here was a rarity, something she hadn't tried. Harley was excited; this, she knew, was going to be fun. And Kitty was content; this would be a great caper, and for now, her secret could wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! Despite my impossible workload for school at the moment, your dear Verity has come up with another (rather long) chapter for you, so be thankful (and if you show your thanks with a nice review, there are invitations to Brucey's latest party, as well as . . . another event you'll hear about this chapter, to be had). But who am I kidding? I'm thoroughly enjoying this story, and I hope you are too. Now, on to the chapter!**

"So one more time," Ivy said, checking her makeup one last time in the ladies' room at Wayne Tower, "when the man at the door asks our names, I'm Valentina, Harley, you're Natasha, and Kitty's Marina?"

"The darlings of the Russian ballet!" Harley said with a laugh and a pirouette, twirling the skirt of her red satin gown. "But once we're inside, Ivy, you go back to being Ivy so you can meet your man, and Kitty and I can just mingle inconspicuously and flirt with Gotham's finest."

"Actually," Kitty murmured, looking demure in her royal-blue gown with her light brown hair pinned up regally; she had been unusually quiet all night, and her friends had had no way of knowing it was from her secret dying to be spilled, "maybe I won't do any flirting or anything tonight; I'll just keep a low profile."

Harley stood in stunned silence; even with her unwavering dedication to Mr. J, she could enjoy the humor in making casual small talk with someone she'd almost certainly robbed more than once. Ivy spoke. "Kitty, honey, remember this is your Auntie Ivy asking you, so answer truthfully, are you seriously not going to be the absolute belle of the ball at a party hosted by the alter ego of your ex-lover, the guests of which all almost certainly have been robbed by you at one time or another? Well? Because opportunities like that are rare, dear."

"It's just . . ." Kitty was grinning now, to her friends' further confusion, "I'm not sure how the dynamics work for these things . . . for a nearly-married woman." And very slowly and deliberately she pushed a stray curl back with her left hand, an antique diamond ring flashing in the light.

Now Ivy was the stunned one, standing stock-still with a look of astonished delight, while Harley screamed for joy and grabbed her old friend in a congratulatory hug. "How'd it happen? When? Why haven't you told us earlier?" she was standing with her hands on her hips, traditional grin ruining the affect of her mock anger. "Tell us everything," she commanded.

"Well, it was only a few nights ago, the day before our last meeting, actually," she began. And then she told everything.

_They had just gotten back to Edward's manor, laden with stolen art objects and running on adrenaline. Kitty was laughing and so was Edward. "One of your finest," she said, referencing his riddle, a particularly clever one, as they toasted each other with cognac in the drawing room._

_"But we can never forget our cat burglar, as always," said Edward, nodding at her over his drink. Kitty took a sip of hers and leaned her head back. She was so happy. There was the incomparable feeling of a job well done, of course, but even more there was . . . being here with him. Never in Kitty's life, before or since joining the business, had she been the best with relationships (as her bat-escapades had proven) but with Edward Nygma she suspected she had finally found someone who understood her, and would have her exactly as she was. Her true love. She opened her eyes, still basking in her contentment, when she noticed something unusual: Edward was looking almost . . . nervous, all of a sudden._

_"You okay?" she asked, gently. She had never seen him anxious before. He nodded distractedly and got out of his chair, starting to pace around the room. Worried though she was, she couldn't help appreciating what a dashing figure he made, storming around in his flawlessly tailored suit, eyes flashing. Finally, he spoke._

_"Selina, I have been trying for weeks to think of the perfect riddle for this, but I know I'm never going to, so I'll just have to say it before I lose the courage. Will you marry me?"_

_"W-w-what?" Kitty was stunned- sure she had hoped a little, but in their profession (although no one was ever sure of the legal status of Harley and Mr. J) . . ._

_"Selina, my Selina, I love you. Irrevocably. Possibly since that night we met at the museum and you smiled at me from between the security lasers."_

_"And you smiled back and bowed to me, even though you were suspended from the ceiling, and my heart flipped over in my chest, and that was that for me," whispered Kitty, smiling at the memory, a tear or two running down her cheek despite herself._

_"So, Selina, my love, I am asking you, will you marry me?"_

_"Of course," she said, laughing and crying at the same time. "Of course, absolutely, yes!"_

_For a moment Edward looked like he wanted to say something, but knew there were no words for what he was thinking. Neither of them knew who started it, but somehow they wound up in a kiss. This is right, they were each thinking; this is just exactly right._

"And so that's it," Kitty said, smiling and blushing. Harley, always the romantic, was squealing with delight.

"That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard!" she chirped. "When's the wedding? Oh, it'll be beautiful!"

"Well," said Kitty, excited even at the thought, "I wasn't sure where we'll have it, but I've ben thinking about a dress . . ."

"Focus!" said Ivy, the realist of the group, trying but failing to look as if she hadn't been just thrilled at her friend's news. "We are infiltrating Bruce Wayne's party now. Put on your Russian ballerina faces. But Kitty," she couldn't help adding, "the moment this party is over, we are planning your wedding!"

The guard let them through to the penthouse with no questions at all. You'd think old Bruce would have given up on penthouse parties, thought Harley, after what Puddin' did to that one of his . . .

Their host was absurdly easy to find, standing right in the center of the room, talking to a portly old man (he did something for the government), and positively oozing self-assuredness. Well, thought Ivy, two can play at that game, while Kitty and Harley melted easily into the crowd (probably discussing Kitty's china patterns, the ninnies, thought Ivy with affection). She walked straight up to him.

Bruce Wayne was used to having pretty women approach him, but as he surveyed this one- a redhead in dark green raw silk- he noticed something unusual. She did not appear to be simpering at him, or batting her eyelashes, but was giving him a long straight look with clear, intelligent green eyes. He smiled. Between fighting crime in the underbelly of Gotham, and maintaining his lazy playboy image, it was so nice to have someone look at him frankly, not after his money or trying to kill him. "I don't believe we've met," he said, extending a hand.

Ivy smiled; she was thinking of the twenty-three times they had met before, in different outfits. "I'm Ivy," she said, making up a new last name on the spot, just in case, "Ivy Du Bois."

"Bruce Wayne," he said, immediately regretting it; she knew who he was, did he have to brag like that?

Ivy chuckled; for the infamous Bruce Wayne, there was something sweetly . . . innocent about him, the way he talked. "Forgive me for saying," she said, "but I'm not exactly a big fan of this kind of party." It was true; the penthouse had no plants at all.

"Neither am I," Bruce admitted. "Maybe instead we could talk over coffee some time?"

Harley and Kitty had clearly been eavesdropping; over Bruce's shoulder, Ivy suddenly noticed them start clapping lightly, grinning evilly. She smiled. "I'd like that," she said.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys! Now, your dear Verity has some news: In honor of my finally being DONE with the most massive, exhausting test I've ever taken (hooray!) I had wanted to write a nice long chapter about the girls' latest meeting and all of that. However, some . . . other people . . . recently, erm, contacted me and demanded that this chapter be about them. And, well, once you see who I'm talking about, you'll understand why I had no desire to turn them down. Now remember, they're new to this business of having a chapter of their own, and could really use some encouragement in the form of your reviews. They're offering all kinds of reviewer rewards . . . but anyway, on with the story!**

The bar at the Gotham Towers Hotel was everything an upscale bar should be: cozy, bright, inviting, home to delicious beverages, and important people drinking said beverages. It was the kind of place Bruce Wayne loved, and as he threw the keys for his latest sports car to a delighted valet, he was glad that his first meeting with these strangers could be at someplace where he felt so comfortable.

He had been surprised when he got the call. Alfred said the man on the phone was "A fellow identifying himself as Joseph, said you had a mutual friend in Miss Ivy." Bruce had only been seeing Ivy a few weeks, and the only friends of hers he'd met had been two women- the blond one, who had apparently gone through some sort of motorcycle phase, because everyone called her Harley (that had made Bruce laugh at first, thinking how different she was from the other Harley he knew, the Joker's maniacal accomplice- this one was so sweet, she was as far from a criminal as they came), and the other one, Katherine, nicknamed Kitty, who was engaged (there was something in her slow smile that struck Bruce as oddly, though not unpleasantly, familiar). But never anyone called Joseph. He picked up the phone. "Hello Mr., um, Joseph?"

"Call me Joe, I insist," came a deep, gravelly voice, not unlike the one Bruce himself used when fighting crime as Batman. The Joker grinned at a giggling Harley across the long table in their purple dining room as he absentmindedly toyed in turns with his steak and the bazooka he was cleaning. "Listen, you've, uh, met Harley, right? She might've mentioned me?"

"Oh, of course," said Bruce, half to himself. Harley _had _said something about her boyfriend (husband? fiance?) when she'd spoken to him. This must be him.

"Glad to hear it, Bruce, if I can call you that? Well, anyways, I was thinking to myself, 'Joe,' I was thinking, 'it's gonna be real hard for poor Bruce if all of us get together for dinner or something and he hasn't been properly introduced to us all.' So how's about you, me, and Edward- that's, uh, Kitty's fiance- get together sometime, just to shoot the breeze? How's next Sunday, the bar at Gotham Towers?"

"Sounds great!" said Bruce enthusiastically, meaning it. Ivy was the first woman he'd been in a real relationship with since Rachel's death, and it was so nice that her friends were trying to make him feel welcome. He had forgotten that, between the corrupt businessmen and crazy criminals of Gotham, there were some genuinely nice people, like his dear Ivy and her friends, who didn't think of him as another rich playboy (or crime-fighting vigilante, for that matter), but just as Bruce. He found he was smiling as he entered the bar Sunday night.

It was crowded in the bar with the usual politicians, businessmen, and rich tourists. Bruce elbowed his way to the bar. "Scotch and soda, James," he addressed the bartender, an old friend. The person on the stool next to him turned. "You must be Bruce."

Edward Nygma had foregone his traditional dark green suit, thinking it might be a hair too . . . recognizable, opting instead for dark grey, but with an emerald tie and gold question mark tie pin. Bruce noticed his half-smile, as if he found the world a deeply amusing place. Really, he was remembering all the riddles he had left to amuse himself and baffle both the police and the man standing next to him, and fighting the powerful urge to laugh. He extended his hand to shake. "Edward Nygma," he introduced himself, raising his martini in a sort of toast.

"Bruce Wayne," Bruce replied. "So, is Joe around here somewhere?" he asked, looking around the bar.

"Afraid not; he's running a little late," said Edward with a shrug, toying with his drink, and again the amused half smile.

"So," Bruce asked, "you're engaged to Kitty, right?"

"Yes," said Edward with a real smile, his glittering brown eyes softening a bit when he heard her name. "Yes, I am. And how long have you and Ivy been together? She and Kitty have been friends for years, since before we met."

"Oh, only a few weeks," Bruce said, "and she's great. But yeah, I know how she and Kitty and Harley have been friends for a long time. Do you know how they all met?"

"Oh, I think they used to work together," said Edward casually, choking back another laugh. Just then, however, his cell phone, which had been lying on the polished wood of the bar, went off. "Well," he looked at the number, "that's Joe. Hold on a second," he spoke quickly into the phone. "Joe, I'm here with Bruce, and I'm putting you on speaker." He hit a button and lay the phone back on the bar.

"Bruce?" The gravelly voice sounded a little out of breath. "Well, hey guys, I'm actually calling to uh, apologize. I'm afraid I won't be able to make it. I got, uh, a little _tied up_ at work."

"Oh, that's fine, I--" Bruce's eyes widened as he noticed what was on the television above the bar. According to a Gotham News Special Report, police were quickly losing the trail of the Joker and Harley Quinn, who had just robbed-- the jewelry store next to the Gotham Towers Hotel? "I've got to go too, actually," he said quickly. "Nice meeting you, Ed," he nodded once and was out the door.

Edward had to admire the Joker's sheer nerve. He hung up the phone and was about to call Selina and ask her to join him when he- along with the Joker, if both tradition and the news footage of the now-abandoned chase were to be believed- did something he had wanted to do all evening. He threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Yes, I know it's been too long- blame school, as usual. But anyway, here, a brand-new chapter, double-length to make up for the wait, and because I had an idea I liked. Also, I changed the genre, because let's face it, the girls do talk a lot about their love lives, and that's part of the fun. And because you all are so awesome, and would hate to get on the bad side of our fair characters, I won't even bother hassling you about reviews. Enjoy!**

If you ask the average person to describe an insane asylum, they will probably talk about dull hallway, silence punctuated by screams, locked and bolted doors, and a aura of foreboding. In short, they will probably describe Arkham Asylum.

The place made Ivy shiver. It was so far away from anything green. But at least she was here for an amusing reason. Apparently old Victor had gotten hold of a newspaper and seen her picture under the social column. He was now blathering about Bruce Wayne dating Poison Ivy, and demanding to see her. She had laughed all the way there- I mean, honestly, could you buy a better disguise than a certified lunatic hurling accusations at you? Victor had once terrorized Gotham with his freeze ray in a sledge drawn by polar bears; not a living soul took him seriously. Besides, she and Bruce were still in a pretty low-key relationship; hardly an obvious plot, other than one for her own amusement. She smiled at the doctor who was escorting her to his cell- he was younger than she expected, maybe just a year or two older than her, and, she couldn't help but notice, cute in a skinny, nerdy sort of way.

Dr. Jonathan Crane smiled back, a little nervously. He had always defined the quiet bookish type- at least when he wasn't dealing with his experimental treatments, which always seemed to bring the life out in him- but there was something bold about this pretty woman he liked very much. She looked fearless; this fascinated him. But still, away from his . . . area of expertise, he was very shy. "Here you are," he muttered outside Victor's cell. "Do you want me to wait, or you could ring when you're done speaking to him, or . . ."

"No, please stay," Ivy said, more quietly than she had intended. What was her problem? Now was no time to play damsel in distress, she had to deal with Victor! She shook her head, smoothed out the silver-and-green wrap dress she'd worn specially, and walked into the cell to speak to Victor.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Crane and the cell guards heard screams, and had just wheeled around to open the door when Ivy emerged, laughing softly. Men. So alike, really. She was surprised to see the doctor, Jonathan Crane, his name tag read, looking at her with fast-subsiding alarm. "Are you okay?" he asked. "We heard screams and . . . well, he's a very unstable patient . . ."

"I'm fine," Ivy laughed. He looked so flustered, so concerned, she thought with a giggle. Wait. A _giggle_? No, it must have been a derisive laugh, she realized. Of course.

Dr. Crane was surprised at himself for that brief moment of, well, _fear_ for her well-being, but immediately reverted back to business. "As I was saying," he went on, "Victor is one of our most unstable patients. These large-scale criminals usually are. I've been thinking of trying an experimental treatment on him, using some new nerve toxins I've developed; triggers a powerful psychological response . . ."

Ivy stopped in her tracks. "You like nerve toxins?" She asked. "Not organic, by any chance?"

"Of course," Dr. Crane looked surprised she'd said anything. "Mostly plant-based. Why do you ask?"

o!o

In her life so far, Selina Kyle had climbed walls, robbed museums, killed exactly one man, and fallen in love. All of these things had been scary, but she had been able to overcome her fears to accomplish great things. And look where it had gotten her? A lucrative career, friends who were like sisters to her, and she was engaged to Edward Nygma, her one true love. Clearly it paid to face your fears. She reminded herself of this as she picked up the phone in her apartment and dialed a distressingly familiar number.

"Kyle residence," answered a low female voice. Drat. She had been hoping for the answering machine.

"Mom?" she asked.

"Selina!" Instantly, the voice went up to a chirp to rival Harley's. "So, our city girl finally remembers she has a family, eh? Well, well. How are things, honey, no trouble, I hope?"

"No, of course not," Kitty sighed. When Selina Kyle was eighteen, she had left the tiny farm town where she was born, headed to Gotham City for college, and never looked back. Because of the long-standing differences between her and her family- Town Mouse vs. Country Mouse, you might say- as well as the . . . unconventional twists her life had taken, she didn't stay in too close contact with her family. Mostly birthdays and holidays, that sort of thing. And yet, there was still a tiny part of her that was glad to hear her overbearing mother's voice.

"Well, that's good to know. Say, how is that job of yours? That Mr. Schreck still running you ragged? Because you know, a girl with your brains could get a much better job here at home. And if you lived here at our house, you wouldn't even have to pay rent until you found yourself a nice home, not like that ratty old apartment that must cost you a fortune each month."

Kitty sighed again. Her mother was laboring under two false impressions, one understandable and one delusional. The understandable one was that Kitty was still in fact working as a secretary for corporate giant Max Schreck. Naturally, Kitty had never informed her parents that two years ago, she had heard something she shouldn't have, regarding some of her boss's more, ahem, colorful business associates (specifically the Falcone crime family) and Mr. Schreck had tried to kill her for it. The night she miraculously survived his pushing her from a third-story window had been the night she joined the business, and one month later she had killed Max Schreck, the first and only time she had ever killed someone. Of course, this wasn't the sort of thing a person just mentioned to her mother over a birthday phone call. "Happy birthday, Mom, oh and by the way, I killed my homicidal megalomaniac boss, and now I'm a cat burglar!"

The second misimpression of Mrs. Kyle, the delusional one, was that Kitty was ever coming back to Medsfield. She had picked up her heels and run at the first chance, and she was never coming back. Until now, though, she had seen no sufficient reason to deprive her mother of that last spark of hope. But now it was time to set things straight.

"Actually, Mom, I probably _am_ going to be moving out of the apartment soon," Kitty took a deep breath before the moment of truth. "You see, Mom, I called to tell you that . . . I'm getting married. His name's Edward, and we've been together for these past eight months, and he's just . . ." Suddenly she was aware of an acute silence on the other end of the line. "Mom? Are you still there?"

"My little girl's getting married," Kitty's mother whispered. "Oh, honey, do you love him? Really love him?"

"With all my heart, absolutely, just like he loves me," Kitty said quietly, something uncomfortably like a lump in her throat.

"My little girl's getting married," her mother repeated, excited now. "Oh this is fantastic! When are you thinking of for a date? I've always liked June . . . Oh, and there'll be parties, and a shower of course, and have you thought about your dress? And . . ."

"Mom," Kitty interrupted, laughing. "So I take it this means you'll be attending the wedding?"

o!o

"Come on sevens!" Harley Quinn called, as her beloved Mr. J rolled a pair of dice down a long table. They were both out of uniform, Harley in her red satin evening gown, Puddin' in a dark burgundy pinstripe suit, no makeup, at Maxim's, Gotham City's landmark casino and hotel. Harley thrilled at how people looked at them, the strange couple- he with those terrible scars (that were so very sexy, thought Harley), and she with that laugh that filled a room.

Harley loved casinos. They reminded her of Las Vegas, the city where, exactly one year ago, she and Mr. J had, on a complete whim, signed their vows in front of an Elvis impersonator at a drive-in wedding chapel. They had celebrated by holding up the circus-themed hotel on the Vegas Strip, and putting on their own bomb-juggling act. Harley still didn't see why the police were so upset about that one. They'd hardly stolen anything, just the patrons' valuables, nobody was seriously injured (contrary to media reports, she and Puddin' tried not to kill anyone, not civilians, in their schemes. It took the fun out of it, they both agreed), and besides, it was their wedding party, and a perfect one for them at that.

The dice rolled a seven. Harley cheered. "I guess it's the, uh, luck of the devil," Mr. J said with a shrug. He was absently fiddling with a penknife in one hand, one of those somehow socially acceptable Swiss Army gadgets. "What would _you _say, Harley?"

"Maybe _I'm _your good luck charm," she smiled, striking a pose.

"As I said, luck of the devil," he muttered, and Harley laughed, when suddenly two security guard approached, telling Mr. J that he'd come up on their security computers, and would he please vacate the premises?

Harley pouted disappointedly at Mr. J, thinking of how hard he had worked to hack into Maxim's security database, as he said he would certainly leave- be _happy_ to, even- and Harley should just meet him outside, but he had had a recent identity theft problem, and if he could see the computer for a second, just to make sure this wasn't that again?

The guards nodded. This guy looked a little weird, and for whatever reason, they'd rather not upset him.

Twenty minutes later, the Clown Prince of Crime stood outside Maxim's, practically hearing the executives' dismay inside and admiring his handiwork for a moment before turning to Harley Quinn and asking, "So, babe, whaddya think?"

Harley grinned from ear to ear. Somehow, in the chaos following the bizarre computer disaster that was even now wiring every dime in Maxim's into various untraceable accounts with unstoppable speed, no one had noticed someone using a chain saw to give the otherwise painfully serious statue of two lovers in front of Maxim's two big, happy smiles. "Oh, Mistah J!" Harley threw her arms around him. "It's perfect!"

"Happy anniversary, Harley," he said. And somehow, they were still laughing as they kissed, before running to the getaway car, narrowly passing the police on their way to Maxim's.

o!o

When Ivy got home at last, it was late at night. The plants could sense something was different about her, although even they couldn't sense if it was good or bad. Her hair was mussed. She was wearing a look she never had before, one that could only be called "dazed."

She tried to call Kitty and Harley, but Harley was out and Kitty's line was busy. She left a message for both of them, "Hey, it's me, Ivy. Please give me a call, or even drop by, I need to talk to you guys. Something . . . happened. Tell you everything later. Bye."

Ivy sunk into a chair in the sun room, sighing heavily. In all the planning her lifestyle called for, and all the other planning she did, because she liked to feel in control, she had never expected anything like this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey, all! Yes, again, I know it's been to long, but good news: I'm done at last with my exams, so now I can focus on what really matters! This one's just a fun little chapter, but there's more to follow-sooner this time! And again, good and gentle readers, I trust you enough not t so much as mention reviews, because I know you'll drop me a line. Merci, and enjoy!**

With Kitty's wedding on the approach, and Ivy's minor emotional crisis to deal with, and just a generally stressful few weeks, a girl's night out sounded like an excellent way to hold the book club's latest meeting. It had been Harley's book choice (_A Tale of Two Cities_- she'd always had a taste for the classics), Kitty's idea to go out for the meeting, and as for where they went . . . well, a massive, brand-new petroleum refinery had recently opened a few miles outside of Gotham, and when Kitty and Harley asked Ivy for suggestions, she was only too quick to recommend something.

"So whaddya think of the book?" Harley titled her head to one side as they surveyed the shattered glass of the refinery's windows. "Kitty, I'm guessing you loved it, tears and all, but how about you, Ivy?"

"I did not cry!" Kitty protested, blushing under her cat-ear mask, pointing to where the one person left in the refinery at this hour- it's hefty, ruddy-faced owner, doing some slightly illegal late-night paperwork- was trying to scramble away. "Okay, maybe a little, but can you blame me? That bit at the end, 'a far, far better thing,' I mean, really!"

"Ah Kitty, you sentimental old fool, you know we love you anyway," Ivy grinned from the top of a heap of bricks. "And frankly Harley, even my cold blood was stirred a bit by that last part."

"I knew it!" Harley squealed in triumph. "I knew me and Kitty couldn't be the only ones with hearts. Hell, I bet your heart's on your sleeve," she joked, pulling a Queen of Hearts card from Ivy's green satin sleeve. The other two women groaned.

"So," Kitty mused, gazing at the refinery's remaining central tower, "how do we finish it off? I'd go with the Harley Strategy, a nice explosion. Ooh, or even better, we torch it with gasoline, nice and ironic!"

Harley was nodding enthusiastically, but Ivy shook her head and said, "I've got something better."

"Better than gasoline explosions?" her friends whimpered, when she held up a small, slightly shiny seed for them to inspect.

"Genetically modified," she explained, planting it and assessing her friends' dubious faces. "It was a present from . . ." she stopped, blushing, and they understood. There was only one person in Ivy's life, a certain mad scientist, who might have given her such a seed during the day they spent together that had led to Ivy's current nervous state. The three women stepped back and watched genetic modification, with a little help from Ivy's gift, work its magic.

Vines shot up like a geyser, gushing over the ugly industrial brick walls, swarming, taking root, dragging the building down. One brave shoot found its way around the thick waist of the still-scrambling refinery owner, pulling him up, screaming, to the top of the climbing green tower. Eventually all that could be seen was a moonlit pillar of green, proud and magnificent, with one screaming, squirming figure at the very top. The three women took a long look at it and burst into applause.

"Not the face I'd have chosen for the green movement," came a familiar, growling voice behind them. They whipped around to find the man who was almost an old friend glaring at them.

"Batsy!" chirped Harley, still clapping. Kitty whipped out a throwing dagger and Ivy edged a little closer to the mountain of vines, both still smiling. And then it began.

"Ever read _A Tale of Two Cities?_" Kitty asked Gotham's Dark Knight, aiming a sharp kick at his chest.

"I think you'd love it," Harley added, cartwheeling just out of reach of a bat-shaped boomerang. "'Best of times, worst of times' and all."

The Caped Crusader faltered for just a second. Why, he wondered for the hundredth time, did the criminal element in Gotham have to be so _strange_? Why did running into a former paramour so often involve throwing daggers? And there was something implacably familiar about the dynamic between these three, the way they fought together . . . but there was work to be done now.

Even with the three-to-one advantage, Batman's reputation wasn't for nothing, and it was a decent fight, and the girls could hear police sirens as they scrambled into Kitty's black sedan, the Bat momentarily winded just long enough for them to make a run for it.

"That was close," Kitty shivered. She had hardly noticed it was November already, but suddenly she was freezing.

"Ah, but that's where the excitement is," Harley countered, and Kitty had to agree to that. "And say it was a great night out all around," Harley continued. Much as she loved Mr. J, sometimes it was just good to have night out with your friends.

"Well, that it was, I can't deny it," murmured Kitty sleepily. Tomorrow she would have to negotiate with her mother about exactly how many of her second cousins would be invited to the wedding (she had twenty-seven), and then there were those diamonds she was selling at auction . . . but that could wait. For tonight, she was with her friends, and allowed herself a moment of peace.

"Yeah, guys," Ivy agreed as they made the sharp turn onto her long driveway where her own compact hybrid car was parked at the end and Harley's convertible was waiting. "Thanks for taking me out," her crisis was still very much there, but it was wonderful having a fun distraction, even for this one night.

Meanwhile, Commissioner Gordon shot one last puzzled look at the wreckage of the petroleum refinery. He had heard what happened, but still . . . especially with the literary references the "unofficially endorsed" Batman had described, this was a weird one, even for Gotham. He turned to the refinery's owner, just cut down by the fire department, for a statement.

Unfortunately, all the still-shaking man could say at the moment was "Best of times . . . Worst of times . . ." again and again.


	9. Chapter 9

**See, I told you not so long a wait this time, and a nice long chapter to boot. Although, I have to say, I'm beginning to wonder if this whole "trusting you to review" bit might be going a little too trusting. Come on, dear readers, don't let me down. But enough of that. On with the story!**

**Also, just a warning: things get very silly this chapter. Just so you know.**

"Hey, guys," Harley Quinn's voice had an unusual edge to it- almost nervous- as she addressed her two friends in a booth at the Gotham Diner. In addition to their famous "French Toast you'll write home about," the diner was known for their criminal clientele. Even on a cold Monday morning early in December, customers included, along with the girls, two mafia dons swapping Thanksgiving stories, an illegal weapons designer hastily scarfing down a blue plate special, and a distinguished-looking politician accepting a steel briefcase from two tanned bodyguards.

"I was thinking," Harley continued, that same strange edge still in her voice, "about our jobs." At her friends' confused faces she continued. "I mean, when you think about it, me and Mistah J, we do things for the joke in watching 'em play out, right? And Ivy, you fight for plants because they can't fight for themselves, and Kitty, you're a cat burglar who hits museums and corrupt rich people, and even stopped a few muggings, right?"

"Yeah," both women agreed, giving each other a sideways glance. When Harley had suggested going out for breakfast, they had known she had another, potentially, er, unconventional idea, but they really didn't see where this was going.

"But my point is," she went on, "none of us _want_ people to be hurt, right?"

"No," Ivy said, while Kitty murmured, "Of course not." It was the first time the issue had been brought up out loud, but none of the trio had ever wanted to hurt people. Contrary to popular belief and media reports, people in their line of work- theatrical crime bordering on performance art- seldom did.

Their breakfast arrived. All three of them had gone with the celebrated French Toast. "Come on," Kitty smiled. "Enough of this. Tell us the plan you have obviously been dying to spill since we walked in here."

"All right," Harley laughed. "Just a few more clarifications. One: you're okay with a plan that may involve what can only be called fighting crime, but is also funny and makes it easier for us to do the jobs we love with only _occasional_ interference?" Both women nodded. "And Two: Ivy, you did need to talk to Bruce, right?"

"Yeah," Ivy shrugged, looking resigned and twirling a single red curl around one finger. Due to a certain incident- tucked away into a far corner of her mind, to be dealt with only when absolutely necessary- she had decided that the Bruce Wayne Experiment was coming to a close. Ah, well. It had been a fun ride, and she liked to think the new Green platform of Bruce's company had a little something to do with her.

"Good," Harley said with the broad, red-lipstick grin only she could muster. "Because after that last fight with the Bat, at the refinery, I kinda had an idea . . ."

o!o

Kitty was surprised, but it was true- Stately Wayne Manor really was as stately as she remembered from the old days. The wind picked up and she pulled her black wool coat a little closer. She and Harley looked at each other incredulously. How Ivy could stand it without a coat, just a fuzzy green sweater and a long scarf, was beyond them, but then, she had always been like that. They rang the doorbell.

"Wayne residence," Alfred, the ancient butler, greeted them. "Ah, Miss Ivy, I believe Master Wayne was expecting you. But what of your companions?"

"Oh, they're just here for, erm, moral support," Ivy said through chattering teeth. She had always had a high tolerance for temperatures, but this wind had a real bite to it. "Now let us in, please, it's freezing out here!" she laughed.

"Right away. Master Wayne is in his study, and if you two would care for some refreshment while you wait for Miss Ivy, the kitchen is right this way."

The two women followed him into the gleaming kitchen, where he poured two delicate china cups of steaming hot chocolate. There were even scones, Kitty noticed, choking back a laugh. Through all they'd been through, Bruce always did have a lot of class. She permitted herself a long nostalgic look around the kitchen, smiling slightly.

Alfred had just glanced back to the newspaper he had been pursuing before the ladies had shown up (so thoughtful of Master Wayne to get the _Daily Mail_ delivered for him), when one of the young women, the blonde with the funny red hat, slid up next to him and grinned.

"Hey, Mistah Butler," Harley Quinn smiled. "Whatcha doin'?"

Exactly as she had predicted, Alfred was thrown completely off guard. No one ever asked him what he was "doin'," certainly none of Master Wayne's friends. "Just catching up on the news," he answered.

"The news? You know, that reminds me of this funny story I heard . . ." Harley prattled on, delighted at how well her plan was working.

Meanwhile, in Bruce's study, Ivy was smiling sadly. "But, really Bruce, maybe we should just be friends? I mean, we've had some great times together, and I hope we still will, but it might be . . . easier if we went back to just being friends. What do you say?" To her surprise, she really did feel kind of sad about this one- a first for her. But at the same time, she felt another first for a breakup- she felt _relieved_.

Bruce Wayne took her hands in his. Ivy would have been shocked to learn that he was feeling the exact same things she was- sadness and relief. He would miss Ivy, he would, but since Rachel's death, he was really only ready for Russian-ballerina type dating, not something like this. "That sounds okay to me," he said, with a similar sad smile. "But I'll see you around, Ivy."

"See you around, Bruce."

Ivy opened the door and went to collect the rest of the trio. They waited until they were a good way down the driveway, almost at their cars, before Harley finally asked, "So Ivy, how'd it go?"

Ivy shrugged her shoulders and sighed. "It went okay. So Kitty, did you drop it like we said?"

"Of course. I'm not a cat burglar for nothing. And Harley, you were a brilliant distraction."

"Thanks! Years of practice, you know. But do ya think they'll find it soon?"

Kitty grinned. "Oh, they'll find it soon. I'm sure of it."

o!o

Back at Wayne Manor, Alfred was surprised to feel something oddly lumpy under his newspapers. It was an old VHS tape. Now how did that get there? He looked at the taped-on label and sighed.

"Master Wayne," he held the tape out at Bruce, "I know it's none of my business certainly, but how exactly did 'Lusty Ladies of Gotham' find its way into the kitchen?"

Bruce Wayne choked back a laugh. "'Lusty Ladies?' Don't know what you're talking about. But give it here, I could use something fun and stupid to cheer me up."

Ten minutes later, armed with a bowl of popcorn, a skeptical Alfred standing by, Bruce popped in the tape. A scarlet curtain filled the screen as a sultry female voice whispered, "Do you want to know a secret?"

"What?" Bruce, grinning, leaned in a little closer, as, surprisingly, did Alfred.

"Since Batman has been prowling the streets, crime in Gotham has _increased_," the voice continued.

"Oh, re- wait, what?" Bruce was gobsmacked. The curtain parted to reveal a series of statistics showing an increase in muggings, pickpocketing, and drug-related crimes in recent months, as Batman had shifted his focus to higher-profile criminals, the bank robbers, mob bosses, and exhibitionists- anyone with a taste for the theatrical. The statistics and pie charts were all valid and sound, occasionally dotted with a newspaper article. It was all true.

"Gotham needs you, Batman," the voice continued. "For the little things as well as the big, tough crimes you're so fascinated by. The question is, are you up to the challenge?"

Bruce Wayne stared blankly at the screen, utterly stunned. The fact that someone had figured out his identity was the very tip of the iceberg. This was one of the strangest things he had ever seen (and for him, that was something), and he had the oddest feeling that the voice in the video was not mocking so much as _teasing_ him, like an old friend, almost (could this have been Alfred's or Fox's handiwork, then? he wondered. It sounded strange, but stranger things had happened). But what was most staggering to him about the tape was . . . it made a valid point.


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry, sorry, sorry! I meant to post this about a week ago, but I've been sick. This chapter is a little different, as you'll see, but I think you'll like it. Enjoy, and reviewers get, as part of a special limited promotion, a lunch date with the character of your choice (though be careful if you choose Mr. J; you know how jealous Harley can be). Come on, how can you resist?**

_Remember who you are already!_ Ivy scolded herself, absently making the orchid in the vase on the table grow a few centimeters taller. It was just a simple little lunch meeting, for crying out loud. She had finally bitten the bullet and asked Dr. Jonathan Crane to lunch, just to talk about that strange day they had spent together and put it behind them. Even the most disciplined professionals like themselves can slip up under stress, get all emotional, and the best thing to do was to clean up the whole sticky situation before it gets out of control.

She had asked him to meet her at the Golden Lotus, an old favorite Chinese restaurant of hers with pretty murals on the walls and a wicked spicy bean curd. And even if she had taken more time getting dressed than usual, in a pretty aquamarine slip dress totally inappropriate for snowy mid-December and jade earrings, well, she told herself, she always liked to make a good impression. And certainly she had arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early, but punctuality had always been important to her. No she wasn't nervous, she told herself yet again. The notorious Poison Ivy was never nervous and _no I would not like to order appetizers, and stop assuming I'm waiting for a date, it's just a lunch meeting! _she snapped at an unfortunate waiter.

Jonathan Crane polished his glasses once before entering the restaurant. It was good of Ivy to ask him to lunch; after that day, they really should talk, and he was much too shy, er, that is to say, much too preoccupied with his work to call her. This would give them both a chance to clear up that whole slip-up and get on with their respective lives. Briefly he scolded himself for not changing into something more stylish than his lab coat over slacks and an oxford, worrying what she would think of him, but quickly pushed the thought aside, and opened the door to meet his fate- er, that is to say, Ivy.

I either Ivy or Jonathan had seen the expressions on their faces when they each saw the other, they'd have been ashamed of themselves. For all Jonathan's talk of being cool and rational and a man of (mad) science with no time for weakness, and for all Ivy's talk of being an invulnerable temptress loyal first to herself, they both lit up. It was only for a second before they caught themselves, but in that second, the only word for the thing on their faces was _joy_.

"Hey, Jonathan," Ivy said, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach and keep up a coolly professional smile, despite the frankly adorable way Jonathan's cheeks had turned pink from the cold.

"Nice to see you, Ivy," said Jonathan, trying very hard to ignore how pretty Ivy looked, with that three-foot-tall orchid tangled in her hair. He sat down. "So, I saw on the news about the refinery explosion. Your work, I take it?"

Forgetting herself, Ivy's eyes lit up. "I used the plant you gave me, and it tore down a whole wing. You should have seen it, it was just beautiful. Did you use that new toxin on Victor yet?"

"The plant worked? Really?" Jonathan was grinning now, and so was Ivy. "I'd never seen a gift like yours, and so I wondered . . . it must have been magnificent. Oh, and you would have loved it when I tried the toxin on Victor. You could hear the screams all the way to the Arkham cafeteria, which made for a few very interesting lunches . . ."

The waiter who brought the couple at table seven their spicy bean curd, cold sesame noodles, and shrimp with black bean sauce couldn't help but overhear a few snippets of conversation, and it was some of the most interesting eavesdropping he'd done all day. As far as he could tell, the pretty redhead and the studious-looking young man who seemed so in love were both botanists who took great pride in their work; they kept referring to "the business," and mentioning organic compounds, genetic modifications, that sort of thing. Probably some sort of project for the government, they got a lot of those here. He still remembered the African American fellow with the calm voice who had spent an entire meal on his cell phone asking the strangest questions about airplane landings and sonar.

I was only after he had delivered the fortune cookies that he noticed the couple had gotten a little quieter, like maybe something had gone wrong with one of their projects. He went to deal with the frazzled-looking police officer commissioner the heavy mustache in thee corner (wait, hadn't the news said he died a while back . . . ?), giving the couple some privacy.

"Jonathan," Ivy had started; she had to admit it had been a nice lunch, but it was time to set the record straight so they could both move on. But somehow, her mouth disagreed with her mind, and she found herself speaking very fast, before her mind could catch up with what she was saying, "I know I'm a mad eco-terrorist with a track record that always seems to end in my lovers' getting arrested or some similar fiasco, but you're the only person I've ever met who was really like me, and I . . . I like that, so all I'm asking is that you give this craziness and me and all of it a chance. That's all I'm asking of you." Ivy wouldn't have believed she said it if she hadn't heard it herself, but there it was.

"I can do that," Dr. Jonathan Crane blurted out. As with Ivy, he spoke long before he realized what he was saying, although he knew he felt very strange. A lesser man might have called the emotion fear, but Dr. Jonathan Crane understood fear well enough to realize that this was something different. "I mean, I know I'm a slightly . . . unconventional scientist, who thinks about fear more than anyone should, and who can be shy and awkward besides, but I can do that."

Neither of them were the type who favored sweeping emotional gestures, so he simply took her hand in his and squeezed it once, very gently, and for them, for now, it was more than enough.

As Ivy shifted her tiny, fuel-efficient car into gear, she pulled out her cell and dialed Kitty's apartment, where her two best friends were dutifully waiting for a full report on her lunch, once again proving that sometimes your best friends know you better than you know yourself. As soon as they had both picked up a line, Ivy sighed and said, "Kitty, you owe Harley five bucks."

After the initial responses (Kitty asking, "How did you know about our bet?" and Harley squealing "Yay! Money!"), what Ivy said sunk in. You could feel Harley's smile over the phone as she said, "I knew it was gonna happen eventually. I knew it."

"_I_ didn't," said Kitty, laughing. "But Ivy, if I know you, and I do, you're still a little shell-shocked, but once you get over that, remember that I'm so happy for you!"

"Thanks," said the, as predicted, shell-shocked Ivy. "I'm actually on my way over, we need to rehash the whole lunch, I'm afraid."

After they had both assured her that if she _didn't_ come over to discuss, they'd come after her with every weapon in their personal stashes, Ivy hung up and sighed again. Because, to her great annoyance, it had actually happened. She had, against her will, fallen in love.


	11. Chapter 11

**Yes, I know, it's been way too long. I can only hide behind the excuse that I was traveling and away from my computer. So please, dear readers, forgive me, and enjoy the chapter. Do I even have to mention that reviewers are invited to join in this and next chapter's festivities? Well, I just did anyway, so on with the show, and enjoy!**

Kitty looked out the window of her disaster area of an apartment and couldn't help but smile. Christmas Eve in Gotham, and a buzzing, bright, snowy one at that. For all she and this famous, sprawling, terrifying city that had looked so intimidating when she first arrived had been through together, for all it had done to her and all she had done to it, it was home, and at the end of the day she couldn't help but love it.

Well, enough of that. She shook herself away from the window and went to the kitchen. She was cooking (okay, reheating) a few things- mac and cheese and a vegetarian lasagna, a few mugs' worth of hot chocolate. The girls were bringing the cake and, knowing Harley, a few other holiday goodies. They would be there in a few minutes, but until then, Kitty allowed herself to curl up by the window again with one of her cats, and remember what had happened this time a few years back.

Kitty's anniversary party was one of the girls' traditions. She had joined the business at Christmas, the last of the three to join up, and every year on Christmas Eve they had a party to celebrate. Kitty stared out her slightly dirty window at the Schreck Building, now owned by Wayne Industries, and thought she could just about make out the window she was pushed from the night she had heard something she shouldn't, the night she joined the business. If you had told her that night that it was all the best thing that could have happened to her, that it would give her not only her career, but great friends and her true love, she'd have probably killed you. But, she thought with a laugh, life could be funny that way.

The doorbell rang. "Happy anniversary!" shouted Ivy and Harley, utterly laden down with pastry, including a cat-shaped cake and harlequin cupcakes. "Sorry we're late, but it was all Ivy's fault!" said Harley, grinning her signature smile. "Go, on, ask her why."

Kitty smiled, sensing a good story. "Yes, Ivy, _do_ tell."

"Oh, well, yeah," Ivy muttered, trying to hide her guilty smile. In tribute to the season, she had a poinsetta tucked behind one ear, much the way Kitty was wearing a crystal snowflake necklace over her black sweater. Harley, of course was in full regalia, complete with jingle bell headband and snowman earrings. "It is kind of my fault," Ivy continued, embarrassment obvious. "When Harley came to pick me up I wasn't quite ready. I had just been showing Jonathan the poisonous plants in the greenhouse and . . . well, we got a little distracted . . ."

"Oh, I'm so proud of you!" Kitty laughed at her friend, while Harley wolf-whistled and giggled. Ivy finally allowed herself to smile fully. For the first time in her life, she understood that dreamy look on Harley's face when she talked about Mr. J, or when Kitty thought of Edward. Swooning about would never be her style- she would always be Ivy, after all- but even someone as cool as her had to admit, to love and be loved was . . . nice.

"Enough about me," Ivy said, suddenly remembering something, "or I'll start up on the seasonal murder of innocent fir trees that some of those present have called 'pretty'."

"No, no, no need to do that," her two friends replied quickly. They had heard that speech before. "Let's have some cake," Kitty suggested. "And how about some music?" she moved towards her stereo.

"Actually," Harley started, quietly for her. "could I try that piano for a second?"

Kitty had forgotten where or why she had gotten the horrible little electric piano that stood dust-covered in the corner- perhaps they were standard issue for all cluttered apartments- but she shrugged and said, "Sure," as she and Ivy started dealing with the food. But then they heard something utterly unexpected.

It wasn't the loud, plunking sound they expected, or the toying with the piano's sound effects. It was a lovely strain of music, sweet and clear. Ivy was the one to ask, "Harley, what is that?"

Harley looked up, with an unusually happy smile even for her. "You like it? It's Chopin," she continued playing, unaware she had surprised anyone.

Her two friends looked at each other. There was something just plain odd about their friend, the irrepressible Harley Quinn, bank-robbing performance artist, being an extraordinary pianist. "Since when do you play the piano?" Kitty asked.

"I've played since I was six," Harley shrugged, returning to the keys until it hit her. "Oh," she said suddenly, "I never told you guys? I thought you knew."

"Knew what?" Ivy asked, suddenly worried, because for perhaps the first time in their years of friendship, Harley looked . . . serious.

"Well, you guys know how I was a shrink before me an' Mistah J met? Well, back then, my name was Harleen Quinzel. _That _Quinzel."

Harley took pleasure in the looks of shock on her friends' faces. Quinzel Steel was one of the largest and most powerful corporations in Gotham. And from the sound of it, Harley's family owned it. "So, yeah," Harley continued, "it all belongs to me now. That shrink job was just because I was interested in psychiatry. My parents died in a car accident when I was sixteen, you know. My guardians all thought I'd just work until I got married. Funny that it actually kinda worked like that, huh?" she smiled, but a little sadly. All she could see in her mind was herself as a little girl, in a red dress at the piano in the Quinzel ballroom, playing some little song for the guests while her father, with his big mustache and ruddy face, talked to important people, and her tall, blonde mother hugged her tight and squealed, "My baby's a genius!" It was funny, but Harley was sure that when her parents looked down at her from heaven, her father sputtered on about the family name and looked suspiciously at Mr. J, but her mother just smiled and laughed to see her happiness. "You know you guys are the only ones who know all that, besides Mr. J, of course. I told him right after we got together." She smiled and sighed at the memory of how adorably flustered Mr. J had looked for the split second after she told him, before saying, "You _are_ full of surprises, my girl, aren'tcha? And I, uh, think we're gonna work together just fine, gorgeous." And then they had robbed their first bank together. What a day.

"Well, information like this calls for a toast," said Ivy, producing a bottle of her favorite organic champagne from somewhere amongst the desserts, while Kitty murmured, "I'm so glad you told us."

Harley laughed at Kitty's comment, head thrown back. "Of course I told ya!" she smiled. "You guys are my best friends. And if you can't trust an eco-terrorist and a cat burglar, who can you trust?"

All three of them laughed as Ivy passed around champagne flutes, remembering how they had all laughed about Kitty's overbearing mother, and sighed in sympathy when Ivy talked about her childhood, as one of seven kids down in Texas, trying to smile at the holidays when her lovingly clueless family gave her yet another pair of ballet slippers. Kitty's memories were a little more recent, thinking of how alone she'd felt when she first joined up, and how she didn't feel lost anymore. In fact, as Ivy started the toast, all three women were remembering and feeling lucky to have friends.

"Here's to Kitty's joining the business," Ivy began, until Kitty interrupted with, "and Harley's glamorous secret!" and Harley piped in with "and Ivy falling in love, _finally_," and then three kept up until the toast also included The Business, Jonathan, Edward, and Mr. J, the holiday season, alternative fuels, and grappling hooks, among other things. Finally Ivy wrapped it up with, "Here's to the gang," and they'd all drink to that.


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry! This was meant to be a Christmas in July bit, in honor of those annoying TV specials, but I kinda sorta had a truly wretched case of writer's block, so I hope you don't mind just a holiday chapter in August, er, September. I know, I suck. All I can plead in my defense is unexpected travel, your honor. Also, my lovely reviewers will be spending the weirdly-timed holiday with the character of their choice. Now, on with the story, and enjoy!**

Most people wouldn't think Poison Ivy would have a Christmas tree, because she would never kill a living tree for decoration. Most people would be half right. While it's true that Ivy would certainly balk at the thought of murdering an evergreen and putting its decorated corpse in her living room, she _did_ have a Christmas tree. However, it was very much alive. Ivy had always been pleased that her gift could be used in more ways than she could count, and one of those ways was to cause a fir tree outside her house to grow, temporarily, through her living room window, where it would be bedecked with living flowers, mostly orchids and hibiscus. Ivy finished her handiwork and smiled.

Now would usually be the time she made a few obligatory phone calls to relatives (they thought she was a botanist, not too far from the truth), and then curled up in the greenhouse with her traditional tofurkey dinner, watching the snow pile up on the roof and opening any presents that might have arrived, plus a few from herself. It would have been a nice day. But this year was little different.

There was a knock at the door. Ivy, ridiculously overdressed in an emerald satin gown, opened the door to see Dr. Jonathan Crane, carrying a wrapped package and smiling shyly. "Jonathan!" she cried impulsively, wrapping him into a quick kiss. She immediately blushed as they broke apart; outbursts like that were never really her style. But, well, his ears had turned pink from the cold, and the way he was smiling at her, not to mention he was wearing . . . oh, wait.

"Nice sweater," she giggled, glancing at the lumpy, snowflake-covered thing. Jonathan muttered something unintelligible. "What was that?" Ivy asked.

"My grandma made it for me," admitted Jonathan Crane, the man who could bottle fear, desperately grappling in his mind for something more dignified to say to her, until he remembered something. "I have two presents for you," he said, pulling out a psychological report along with the wrapped box. "I liberated this report from Arkham- it's about Victor's responses to my drug. As for the other thing- it just made me think of you. I hope you like it."

Ivy took the report first and almost immediately started giggling. "Subject believes himself to be melting- is incessantly quoting _The Wizard of Oz_, possibly in the model of our _Alice in Wonderland_ case, possibly unintentionally?" she dissolved into laughter. "I knew Victor was melodramatic, but . . ." she started up laughing again, picturing Victor delivering the Wicked Witch's monologue. "Thank you for this, Jonathan," she said, catching her breath and turning to the box.

Inside was a necklace, no gold or precious stones, but dark green enamel, twisting into a single vine of ivy. It clearly had not been stolen, but thought about carefully. For a moment she was quiet. _Why did I get her that?_ Jonathan wondered. The sentimentality was absurd, and he could have, ahem, acquired something much more valuable. What was wrong with him? But then Ivy said, very quietly, "Thank you," and handed him a small box before she lost the nerve, containing a slim silver pen with "Dr. Jonathan Crane" engraved on it. He didn't say anything, just pushed a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear very gently and smiled.

"Come on," Ivy said, taking his hand. "The tofurkey's ready and I'm starving."

"Tofurkey?" asked Jonathan with a dubious expression.

"Yes," said Ivy, head high, "tofurkey. And you will love it." _What's happened to us?_ she wondered. They were the cool, the deliberate! She did not descend into sentimentality, neither did he! It was like she was turning into Harley! Yes, she thought, seeing Jonathan's doubtful face as he prodded the ersatz poultry, things had definitely changed. But what was really weird was that she thought she might just be okay with that.

o!o

At Kitty's apartment, much to her annoyance, nothing had changed. Edward had to go out of town for something, so once again she was faced with a holiday alone, her silver foil tree that came only to her waist, and ordering pizza while she watched terrible movies. The holidays had never been a very big deal for her, even as a kid, but still, even as a few of the cats curled up around her, it was hard not to feel a little sad.

The pizza was there. Double anchovy, as always. Only- she opened the box and noticed a few green peppers had been scattered on, too. Ick. She'd always hated them. She was picking them off and putting them in the lid when she finally noticed the letters, cut and pasted to the inside of the lid-

_All tHat GLitteRs is nOt goLD, buT trY SAYing thAt DoWntoWn._

_p.s. CHecK cHANnel 7_

Edward! Her eyes lit up. Digging the remote out from under a heap of old jeans and grappling rope, she turned to channel seven.

"Gotham News reporting to you live from City Hall, where it would appear that the Throne of Gotham has been stolen. As many of you may know, the Throne is an antique, dating back to Gotham City's founding in the seventeenth century, and is traditionally displayed every year at the holidays at City Hall. The crime appears to be the handiwork of the infamous Riddler, leaving a note that Gotham Police code breakers are even now attempting to decipher. The mayor is currently unavailable for comment . . ."

"Ah, but what they don't say is _why_ he's unavailable for comment," came a cool, bemused voice from the door. Kitty knew her fiance too well to even ask how he'd gotten in. Instead, she just grinned as he elaborated. "As it would happen, he accidentally shattered a mirror when he came running to see the scene of the crime. Deeply superstitious man, our mayor. He's been . . . a little anxious ever since."

"You stole the mascot," Kitty giggled, shaking her head in mock scolding. The Throne of Gotham was so ridiculous, and so was the mayor for that matter (perhaps the only man Kitty knew who could pull off juvenile and corrupt _simultaneously_), that it was perfect. Besides, Edward was here, looking ridiculously good and distinctly not in London!

"I couldn't resist," he shrugged, coming over to kiss her. "Consider the media blitz my personal gift to the city of Gotham. A little good-natured distress, from me to them."

It felt so good to hear that, thought Kitty. Here was another artist, not in the business for money (not that money wasn't nice), or for politics (not that political convictions weren't a good thing), but for the _art_. Small wonder they fit so well together. "Hey," she looked up at Edward. "If the mayor is so superstitious and all, how do you think he feels about black cats? Oh, and by the way, why are you back early from that black market thing in London?"

Edward's handsome features lit up. She always knew, didn't she? No surprise they had found each other. "Selina, my mad genius, I think we have to find out _exactly_ how the mayor feels about black cats," his voice got an octave quieter. "And I came back early because I missed you."

Melting a little, Kitty grabbed her coat, giggling a bit on the way out. There was no pile of presents, and no fancy dinner. Just her and her love and a cat or two, terrorizing a corrupt politician. It was hardly a fairy tale. But who needed fairy tales when real life was so much better?

o!o

If you glanced very quickly at the holiday scene at Harley and Mr. J's, it might almost look like a traditional home-for-the-holidays setup, their gaudy-posh living room worthy of any Hallmark card with a penchant for purple. There was a towering tree, bountiful baked goods, a pile of gifts, even a roaring fire. But if you looked a little closer, you might notice that about half the ornaments on the tree were either little mini-bombs or small bundles of dynamite, carefully tied with satin ribbon (New Year's Eve they hauled the tree outside to the yard and blew it up, their personal alternative to fireworks). You might see that the fire was comprised not only of wood, but of newspaper clippings about the exploits of Batman, the Joker, and Harley Quinn. Once you saw the set of machetes lying on the top of the gift pile, you would probably come to understand that all was not as traditional as it seemed. In fact, there were only two innocuous things about the scene: the baked goods, which really were baked goods, and the expressions on the faces of the two people in the room, which were happier in their twisted way than a Hallmark card could really capture.

"Time for your present, Mistah J," giggled Harley. She was totally content- the over-the-top splendor of the holidays was absolutely her element, especially with their twisted touches, and this last gift, if it worked out, would be the harlequin icing on the cupcake.

"Ah, Harley, you didn't have to get me anything. You know that all I want in the world is, uh, a little less order, a little more chaos, and you to wear that French maid outfit I got ya."

Rolling her eyes at the outfit comment, she said, "I know. But this is different." She put two fingers into her mouth and whistled, shouting, "Come on in!"

She grinned as her present entered- a tiny little big-eared mop of a puppy, wearing the little jester's hat she'd found for him at one of those little dog boutiques. She let out the slightest squeal of delight and glanced over at Mr. J.

His expression was unreadable, even to her, and for the first time she wondered if this might not have been such a good idea. Mr. J had never shown any inclination towards animals; what if he didn't like him?

But then something happened: the puppy, which had been frantically circling the room, grabbed one of the newly unwrapped machetes in its mouth, and ran over to the Joker himself, still holding the knife in his little teeth as if waiting for approval. Suddenly the famous Glasgow smile was being upstaged by an actual grin as Mr. J, patting the puppy on the head with slight surprise, said, "He's perfect."

Perfection. A subjective concept to say the least. Perhaps, Harley thought, doting over a dog with a penchant for machetes while the Clown Prince of Crime wrapped an arm around you and suggested all kinds of ludicrous dog names was not everyone's idea of perfection. But it was hers. Always.


End file.
